Prisioner of the Gods
by THE Chick Norris
Summary: That was the legacy that my mother left to me-the knowledge that there was no escape short of death.


Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

_Much love to my fabulous pre-readers Jaspers_Bella, forthelongestday, and my fantastic fic wifey GemmaLisax. You ladies are just fantastic. Thank you._

The rock made a neat slice on my brow, right above my eye and as the blood trickled down obscuring my vision, I watched as the perpetrator that had thrown it scampered back to her mother. She was fat and happy and brown from the time spent at the banks of the river. I hated her. I hated her because she had everything that I always wanted. She had a life, and a future. The chains rattled, I felt a tug, and was ripped from my fantasies of living the life of that little girl.

My life, my existence, was nothing short of hell. Hell is all I have known. There was a time, when I too was fat, happy, and brown. That was before my mother was taken by the Gods. Her screams have been the music of my life. It is the only sound of hers that I can still recall clearly. There is no one to remember mine.

I was marked at birth by the fate of my mother. Her destiny was mine as well. My father the warrior, the criminal warrior who despite his success on the battlefield could not protect his family took the cowards way out. He offered both my mother and myself to the pīpiltin that he had wronged in order to save himself.

As I shuffled along with the blood from the cut running down my face I remembered the day that the pīpiltin claimed us. My father stood in the corner with his arms folded across his chest and a self-satisfied smile on his face at having escaped the wrath of the pīpiltin. The memory of my mother pleading for my father to intervene, of her pleading to the pīpiltin for my freedom and her screams at being violated in front of me echo through my mind and drown out the chanting of the crowd that had gathered to watch my progress to the temple.

Their chants could not break the spell of the past that I had fallen under. My mind forced me to recall every moment. I did not waste my energy wishing for the happy existence that would never be mine. I held my head up as I continued toward what would certainly be my death, and gave in to the memories. Remembering the horrors that I hadalready survived gave me the courage to continue forward.

My mother did not survive long after the day we were taken. The pīpiltin did not like her defiant nature, or her attempts to shield me from the horrors of our new life. Her spirit died the day we were taken, and her body took much abuse because of me. She was beaten, broken, and demeaned in an attempt to prepare me for the future. I learned my lessons well, despite her pleas for me to fight.

There was no point in fighting fate. She wasted her breath begging me to fight, and wasted her life fighting against something that was more powerful than either of us. Before I ever became a woman, I knew that to resist the pīpiltin's wishes would not guarantee death, only worse horrors. That was the legacy that my mother left to me-the knowledge that there was no escape short of death.

I continued my slow, chain hampered shuffle towards the temple and the crowd grew more and more frenzied in calling for my sacrifice. Having my heart cut out at the hands of the priest seemed like a fitting end and I briefly wondered how long I would survive once my chest was open. But my past would not leave me to my musings about the end.

I became more determined to embrace my fate with a dignity that had eluded my mother. I would pull strength from the knowledge that my impending sacrifice would feed the Gods. My blood, the blood that the pīpiltin had taken for granted would fuel the Gods and I dared to hope that he would feel their wrath for tainting it with his cruelty. I wanted the Gods to sample me and taste every lash of the whip, every forced violation, every broken bone, every horror that I had ever tasted.

I stumbled over the bottom step of the staircase to the temple, and the crowd mistook my distracted fumbling for fear and went wild. I hit the stone steps hard, and the ripped the skin from my knees and the palms of my hands. I now had blood slowly running down my shins and dripping from my hands to match the blood that still flowed from the cut above my eye. The pīpiltin tugged hard on my chains again before I could regain my footing, and began cursing me when my cheek struck the stone and burst open. I quickly struggled through the dancing spots of darkness to stand and regain my footing. Ignoring the taunts of the crowd and the insults of the pīpiltin, I squared my shoulders as much as I could given the weight of my chains, raised my head, and began the ascent to the edge of hell.

The pīpiltin stopped me halfway up. He was forbidden further access to the temple's top, my final destination. He barked empty threats at me, and ordered me to the top. I was out of his control now. For the first time in my life, the decision was mine. Did I do as my mother had begged and pleaded with me to do, and fight fate; or did I end my life the way I had attempted to live it and accept that fate was not kind or fair. I chose the latter. I continued up the steps, my head high, my chains scraping the stone steps as they trailed behind me. I refused to meet my end full of fear and desperation.

I stopped once I reached the top, and studied the scene around me. It was only then that I noticed the small figure in my shadow. A young girl watched me. It did not surprise me to see her, only that I had not noticed her during the journey here. I remembered following behind my mother on the day she was given to the gods. I would not show this child the weakness that my mother had shown me. Her life was cursed enough without the impotent feeling of being powerless to stop the horrors that would take place. I would let her see that the futility of her existence would give her power at her death. The priest, whom I had only seen at my mother's sacrifice, studied me with a dead look upon his face and I could not help but wonder if he also cursed the fates. He beckoned me forward with an impatient flick of his wrist as his eyes darted towards the shadows.

I turned and offered the young girl a wink of encouragement before crossing the platform towards the priest. His eyes continuously flicked between my blood-spattered body and the shadows; the dead look on his face was replaced by fear as I got closer. I was midway across when he gestured for me to stop. He approached me slowly, circling me, muttering under his breath and making gestures with his hands. I assumed that this was a preamble to me laying on the slab, that he was attempting to undo all of the evils that had been done to me in order to purify my body and my blood for the Gods. I kept my stare forward, studying the shadows the priest's eyes kept darting towards.

It was on his third pass around me that the priest reached out to seize me and the shadows moved. A low deep voice sounded from their depths commanding the priest to leave. He dropped his now trembling hand, having never laid it on me, and his eyes darted to the now still shadows once more before he quickly moved to comply. The disembodied voice once more commanded the priest to leave and take the young girl with him. The priest took the young girl and left quickly after being instructed to do so. I continued to stand there and study the shadows. The ceremonies never change, and yet this was different. I remembered seeing the priest dance around the edges of the platform with my mother's heart in his hand, displaying it for the frenzied crowds and I was glad that the girl was saved from one of the horrors that awaited her.

The screaming, chanting crowds below dispersed as the sun descended in the sky, and I did not move an inch despite my curiosity at the differences between this sacrifice and the other that I had witnessed. It was only when the moon was overhead that fatigue made its presence known and I swayed slightly on my feet. I fought hard against the darkness that was attempting to overtake my vision. The shadows moved again and I won my battle against the darkness. I steeled myself as they continued to move, the darkest of them slowly growing closer to me. The voice spoke again, requesting that I not be afraid and assuring me that I need only wait a little longer.

The voice, this time was very different. It was soothing and kind, a tone of voice that I had never heard directed at me before. It fascinated me that the bloodthirsty Gods would be the ones to finally show me the compassion that had been missing from my life. That they would be the ones to offer me comfort even as they prepared to end me. It was unsettling and confusing to be spoken to in this manner. But was the voice merely attempting to lull me into a sense of security that was false, in order to better taste the fear that would surely follow? I did not know, and even the Gods would not be able to break my resolve to meet my death without fear.

Something colder than the winter night brushed the back of my neck and the chains that I had been wearing fell to my feet. I felt exposed without my collar and chains. They along with my skirt of feathers were the only clothing that I had ever known. I was a slave and allotted no more modesty than that. I closed my eyes, knowing that my feathers would be the next thing to be disposed of. An unusually cool breeze surrounded me, and my skin instantly reacted as I shivered. It was my shiver that drew him from the shadows.

He stepped forward, into the moonlight a heavy blanket in his arms. He studied my face as he stood before me, draping the blanket over my shoulders. I refused to show him any fear, instead, I reciprocated and took the time to study his features. He was not one of us. He was our God, yet his features were not those of an Aztec. His face was as pale as the moon. It was unmarked by the jewels that should have adorned his cheeks and nose, instead it appeared that he was made from a gem and his skin nearly glowed in its paleness.

A small smile crossed his face as his fingers gently traced the trail of now dried blood down my cheek and he spoke in a tongue that I could not understand. His voice was not angry, but hypnotizing. He continued to speak his odd words in that soothing tone and I felt the tension leave my body. This was the moment that I had been prepared for my entire life and I knew that I would willingly offer myself to this God as sustenance. I was surprised by the care in his touch as he traced all of the many marks on my body. The whippings and beatings that I had endured were supposedly to prepare me for the cruelty of this God. They were unnecessary. I had never been touched with such care, and as he continued to take inventory of all of the scars marring my body, his murmured words first grew sad, then angry. After he was satisfied with his assessment, he stood before me once more.

He smoothed my hair down as he spoke to me, this time in my own language. His voice was steady and smooth as he assured me that I was his, and that I would always be his. He said I no longer had to live in fear, that I would no longer be a slave. I wanted to believe him, but I could not allow myself to hope that his words were true and my face remained impassive. He chuckled softly and cupped my cheek and he assured me that in time, he would prove it to me.


End file.
